


Snack Foods are a Sign of Affection

by DeliberateMisspelling



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - No Hale Fire, Humor, M/M, Medicinal Drug Use, Oblivious Stiles, Panic Attacks, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-20
Updated: 2014-02-20
Packaged: 2018-01-13 04:21:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,398
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1212487
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DeliberateMisspelling/pseuds/DeliberateMisspelling
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Scott McCall is very patient and reasonable, and Stiles Stilinski might be a Derek Hale fangirl.</p>
<p>(He is. He is a Derek Hale fangirl.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Snack Foods are a Sign of Affection

**Author's Note:**

> Y'all, I don't even know. 3,300 just fell out of me a 2 in the morning. This isn't even the HS AU that I've been working on for MONTHS that I actually got someone to BETA READ. Oh, no. This is a scribble and post piece of OOC crackiness that I cannot explain, nor do I want to try.
> 
> Well. I can try a little. The recent fandom stuff that's been going on RN basically just makes me want to scream from the rooftops that we can have boooooooooooooth! And by both I mean Scott McCall kickin' ass, takin' names, and being a super good friend/true Alpha/all around bombin' character, and also Sterek. 
> 
> So here we have sassmaster extraordinaire Scott McCall, and some Sterek fluff. BOOOOTH, YOU GUYS. Having cake and eating it tooooo!

“Soooo, how’d it goooo?” Scott’s voice drawls through the speaker after approximately half of a ring.

“Um,” Stiles sniffs, “I had a panic attack and kneed him in the face?”

Scott’s quiet for a long minute.

“Do you want me to come over?” he asks finally, making Stiles sigh gustily.

“Nah, it’s fine. I mean, it’s not fine, it sucks, but it’s also so _stupid_ ,” Stiles groans, shifting around on his bed in a vain attempt to get comfortable.

“It’s not _stupid_ , Stiles,” Scott insists, “You like him, like, a lot. That’s not dumb.”

“Ugh, my God, Scott, I like him _so much._ I kneed him in the _face_ , dude, and he was just like ‘Are you okay? Should I call your dad?’ Like shut uuuuuup,” Stiles whines, “I hate him.”

“You really don’t,” Scott chuckles, spinning idly in his desk chair, “So did you actually talk to him about any of this, or did you go from dead silent watching a movie to psyching yourself out over something that is definitely going to work?”

Stiles grumbles something unintelligible, and Scott huffs.

“So you’re telling me you worked yourself into a panic attack and it wasn’t even because he oh so gently informed you he wasn’t interested? Which he _is_ , by the way, holy crap Stiles!”

“In the _FACE_ , Scott, on my bathroom floor with _my_ face all covered in like, boogers and tears and sweat. Remember the first time _you_ saw me like that? Super gross. How could he see me as a sexual being after that? Could you?!” Stiles demands, slapping at his mattress for emphasis.

“No,” Scott answers blithely, “But seeing as that happened when we were nine, I didn’t see you as a sexual being before that either. Derek totally did. Does. You know, I mean he never saw you as the skinny kid with scraped knees who was always stealing his pudding cups.”

“Shut up. You’re the worst. I hate you,” Stiles grunts, and Scott snickers again.

“You all right?” he asks after his giggles subside.

“Yeah, I’m good. I think I’m just gonna go to bed, I’m pretty wiped,” Stiles yawns out, and if it sounds a little forced Scott lets it pass.

“Okay. See you tomorrow?” Scott asks, even though the answer is a foregone conclusion.

“Yeeeeah, buddy,” Stiles retorts, “I’ll probably be walking behind you for most of the day, using you as a human shield.”

“I can talk to him if you want-” Scott begins.

“Oh my GOD, no!” Stiles cuts him off, “Scott no. Absolutely not. I forbid you. I forbid you from talking to Derek Hale about me. Or anything else! Or any _one_ else! There is to be no discussion of Stiles with anyone about anything, including but not _limited to_ my unfortunate love life. Okay?!”

“All right, man, all right. Whatever. Do it yourself then,” Scott shrugs, but there’s laughter in his voice again and Stiles thinks mutinously of something foul spring loaded into Scott’s locker.

“Goodbye, Scott,” Stiles announces, and taps at his phone screen before letting it fall into his tangled sheets. Stiles wriggles against his mattress again but he still can’t get comfortable, so he peels himself up instead. He starts to shed layers until he’s down to boxers and an undershirt before making his way to the bathroom. Face washed, contacts out, teeth brushed and he’s definitely going to bed even though it’s only 9:30.

When he gets back to his room, his phone is flashing with an unread text.

“Ugh, Scotty, no more,” Stiles pouts, flopping onto his stomach and swiping his screen open. The text isn’t from Scott, of course, because that would be too easy.

_Derek Hale 9:23 PM_

_Feeling better?_

Stiles ignores the flutter in his stomach because yes, in fact, he is feeling better, no thanks to _you_ , Derek Hale.

So he sends _Yeah, thanks. How’s your face?_ back and then gets up to turn out the lights. His phone buzzes just as he’s getting comfy under his blankets, but he sticks an arm out and fishes around for it anyway.

_Derek Hale 9:41 PM_

_Fine, it was a glancing blow._

Stiles snorts and rolls his eyes simultaneously.

_You screamed fuck, grabbed your nose with both hands, and almost fell over backwards into my bathtub. There was blood. ‘Glancing blow’ my ass_

Two minutes later Stiles receives an picture message of Derek Hale’s extremely unimpressed face, sporting two black eyes and a swollen nose. The caption reads: _It’s not broken._

He’s also shirtless in his bed so it takes Stiles a minute to formulate an appropriate reply.

_I’m in bed too. Today was the weirdest._

Admittedly, not his best work.

_Derek Hale_ _9:45 PM_

_I’m on painkillers. I almost fell down the stairs, so. Mom’s orders._

It’s time for Stiles to go to bed.

_Night, Derek_ he shoots back, and then turns his phone off.

 

* * *

 

 

In the long run that turns out to be a pretty shitty decision, because his alarm’s on his phone. Stiles wakes up a half an hour late and misses his morning shower, which means doesn’t get to jerk off before homeroom, so of course he’s flying into the parking lot just as Derek’s climbing out of his mom’s X5. Stiles nearly runs him over.

Talia Hale looks like she’s contemplating pressing charges, which isn’t all that surprising considering she picked her son up from the Stilinski house with blood still dripping out of his nose roughly twelve hours ago.

“He-ey, Derek. Mrs. Hale,” he waves weakly. Talia arches an eyebrow at him and opens her mouth to say something, but Derek shoulders his bag quickly and smiles brightly at her.

“Mom, you’re going to be late for work,” he practically chirps, and then slams the door shut. Talia’s other eyebrow rises to join the first but she pulls slowly away anyway.

“Stiles,” Derek intones, sounding tired but vaguely amused, “Park your car.”

Right, because Stiles is still idling in front of the crosswalk at the drop off zone. Right. He pulls into a space and hops out, surprised to find Derek still waiting for him on the sidewalk even as the late bell rings.

“Walk me in,” Derek demands, “I’m still kind of out of it, and you’ll have an excuse for being late.”

“Uh, sure,” Stiles resettles his bag on his shoulders and offers Derek his arm. Derek’s brows perk up in a frankly eerie imitation of his mother’s, a considering look in his eyes as he glances between Stiles’ face and the proffered limb.

“Ooor not,” Stiles begins, pulling his arm back slowly. Derek rolls his eyes and grasps tight to Stiles’ forearm.

“Thanks,” he murmurs, making Stiles nod like a bobble head.

“Yeah, man, of course. _I kneed you in the face_ , I think making sure you don’t take a header on the steps is the least I can do,” Stiles manages, even though the entire right side of his body feels hot because Derek seems to be leaning on him maybe a little more than necessary.

Or not, as Derek’s foot catches on the next step and only Stiles mad grab for the railing keeps them both upright.

“Jesus, dude,” Stiles breathes as he steadies them, “What did they give you?”

“Just Tylenol with codeine. I apparently have a low tolerance,” Derek mutters, looking down at where he’s gripping Stiles’ arm with both hands like he’s not sure how to take one back off again.

The ridges of his cheekbones and the tips of his ears are a mottled pink. It is _adorable,_ and Stiles is going to _die._

“Maybe I should just take you straight to the nurse’s office,” Stiles suggests, carefully prying one of Derek’s hands free and starting them up the stairs again.

“Um,” Derek answers, and that pretty much makes Stiles’ decision for him.

“Did you take another dose this morning?” Stiles asks as they make their way down the empty hallways towards the nurse’s office.

“Only half a one,” Derek complains, “And I ate breakfast!”

“I don’t think your feet give a shit,” Stiles remarks, because Derek seems to be having a spot of trouble coordinating his limbs. Stiles feels strangely vindicated, and then immediately feels guilty because he’s the reason Derek’s on painkillers in the first place.

“Okay, buddy, here we go,” Stiles eases Derek into a chair just as the nurse comes out of the back area.

“What now, Stiles?” he sighs, making Stiles’ eyebrows snap together.

“Hey! It’s not me this time Mr. Reiner, it’s him,” Stiles jerks a thumb at Derek, who’s tilted in his chair and leaning his head against Stiles’ hip.

“Derek Hale?” Mr. Reiner frowns, crouching down in front of Derek and pulling a penlight from his chest pocket, “What happened?”

“Tylenol with codeine and shitty body chemistry, evidently,” Stiles supplies when all Derek does is yawn and bat the light away from his eyes. Mr. Reiner sighs as he stretches to his feet, tucking the penlight away with a click.

“Mr. Hale, I’m going to call your parents. Mr. Stilinski, here’s a late pass,” Reiner tears a slip of paper from a pad on his desk and thrusts it at Stiles as Derek grunts out a protest.

“Just sleepy,” he grumbles, “Nap, then psychology second period. Stiles stays.”

“Uh, dude,” Stiles begins, but he doesn’t actually have any problem with that plan, per se, so instead he just glances pleadingly at Mr. Reiner, who purses his lips and eyes Stiles appraisingly.

“If I say no you’ll do something like ‘trip’ on the way out and hit your head on the doorframe,” he replies dryly, “Help me get him on a cot in the back and you can stay until he falls asleep.”

“Good compromise,” Derek tells them, and sways to his feet. Stiles catches him around the waist before he sinks down again and drags one of Derek’s arms over his shoulders.

“Lead the way.”

 

* * *

 

 

“Oh, so you _are_ here and not at home wallowing in your misery,” Scott announces as he drops his lunch tray beside Stiles’ and plops into a seat, “Where were you during English?”

Stiles toys with his burnt peas, which, seriously, how? until Scott nudges him in the ribs.

“I was in the nurse’s office,” Stiles admits slowly, making Scott give him a full body once over.

“You don’t look like you maimed yourself on the way to school today,” Scott points out, taking a bite of something purporting to be a hamburger.

“Noooo,” Stiles replies, still not looking up from the strange, crumbling dough-like mixture his peas are making.

“So then why were you in the nurse’s office?” Scott asks, beginning to sound like he’s losing patience with this game.

“Oh my God, Scott, it was _ridiculous_ ,” Stiles half-wails, because he can’t keep it in any longer, “I was late and I almost ran Derek over in the parking lot because he was late too, I guess because his mom wouldn’t let him drive, which, whoa, good call Mrs. Hale cuz he was jacked UP. I mean, he seemed okay at first and then I had to help him up the front steps and he almost wiped us both out and by the time I got him to the nurse’s he could barely walk a straight line and there was _blushing_ involved, and not on my part. And then when Reiner tried to send me on my way, Derek insisted he just needed a nap and that I should _stay._ And Reiner _let me._ Like, stoned Derek Hale is _that cute,_ Scott. So cute. I hate him. He’s _awful._ ”

Scott blinks at him for a full minute, and then asks “So did you ask him out?” like stoned Derek Hale being the most delightful thing Stiles has ever seen isn’t the worst thing that’s ever happened.

“No, Scott, I did not ask Derek Hale out on a date while he was _stoned_ ,” Stiles grits out, and Scott nods.

“Good. He seemed okay in Psych. Maybe more slouched over than normal, but he finished the test. You guys have a free period together next block, right?” Scott continues, even though he knows for a fact that they do, “You should ask him out.”

“Oh my God,” Stiles moans out, finally pushing his lunch tray away to prostrate himself across the tabletop, “I _can’t_. It’s so _stupid_ , Scott, you don’t understand. Reiner gave him some of those fruit roller plastic sheet things to raise his blood sugar, and one of them had those tongue transfer tattoos in it, and he _did it_. He stuck his tongue out and held one of those things to it for an entire thirty seconds to end up with a green question mark on his tongue, Scott. And now if I ask him out and by some miracle of the universe we kiss his mouth will taste like blue raspberry and I cannot, Scott McCall. I cannot.”

“Stiles, that was like two hours ago and he’s probably eaten lunch by now,” Scott points out.

 “Scott, work with me here. None of this is about whether or not Derek Hale’s mouth _actually_ tastes like blue raspberry. No. No, it’s about the fact that I am _wondering_ if Derek Hale’s mouth will taste like blue raspberry. Like I’m wondering if he’ll get sweaty palms if I hold his hand through the first Lord of the Rings movie, and if his lips will get chapped if I make out with him all the way through the second one. In my kitchen this morning I wasted a full two minutes wondering what kind of pop-tarts he likes and I was already half an hour behind!” Stiles insists, and Scott just shrugs.

“I think he likes the blueberry ones, he had a whole box full on the bus to that cross country meet last year,” Scott muses, munching down the last of his so-called burger.

“I hate you and everything you choose to be, Scott McCall,” Stiles tells the plastic of the table.

“Yep,” Scott steals the last of Stiles’ water and then stacks up both their trays, “And blueberry pop-tarts are like the worst ones. You have terrible taste in people. C’mon, let’s go.”

Stiles drags himself up from the table with a groan, but falls easily into step with Scott as they leave the cafeteria.

“Maybe this is the best time to do this,” Stiles muses, “If I ask him at the end of our study period, and he says no I don’t have any classes with him for the rest of the day, and then it’s the weekend so I won’t even have to pretend like I can’t see him until Monday. It’s perfect!”

“Yeah, except he’s not going to say no,” Scott retorts as they pause outside the library where 5th period study hall is held, “Go.”

He shoves Stiles’ shoulder making Stiles stumble into the room before he whips around and calls towards Scott’s retreating back “Let it never be said that Scott McCall is not a supportive and understanding friend!”

Scott flips him off over his shoulder without looking back.

Stiles is a little early, and all the study hall tables are empty. He drops into an empty seat with a huff, and digs several thin, spiral bound notebooks out of his backpack. Stiles doesn’t intend to do any actual studying, but he might as well try to look busy. The bell rings a few minutes later and a crowd of students tumbles into the library. The late bell is going off just as Derek slides into the seat across from Stiles.

“Hey,” Stiles smiles tentatively, “Feeling better?”

“Yes,” Derek mumbles, as the cartilage of his ears goes pink again.

“I was thinking about it,” Stiles tells him, “And you should probably never get drunk. If a little codeine can bring basketball star Derek Hale to his knees, imagine the damage whiskey could do.”

“I don’t like whiskey,” Derek replies easily, “Hard cider is good, though.”

“Oh, my god,” Stiles mouths down at his notebook.

“Something wrong?” Derek actually sounds concerned, and Stiles just cannot take it anymore.

“You should date me,” he announces, overloud. Several heads snap towards them, the librarian included, but nobody seems inclined to intervene and put Stiles out of his misery.

Derek tilts his head to one side and asks, “What. Wait, really?”

“Uhhhh,” Stiles starts, and he’s a little too far in to back out now, “Yeah, really. Everything you do makes me simultaneously want to squish up your face, and also bone you into next week, which is a _really weird_ thing to say to someone you are trying to ask out, but, um, yes. Really. If that is something you would be interested in doing. Obviously. It kind of hinges on that, actually.”

“You get these blotchy red patches at the hinges of your jaw when you’re embarrassed,” Derek observes.

“Oooh-kay,” Stiles nods, because he unfortunately knows that about himself, but he has no idea where this is going.

“You actually, physically pull your own hair when you’re frustrated, and you get this little wrinkle just above the bridge of your nose when you think somebody is just too stupid to live, and you want them to stop talking. You drive like a dickhead, which is completely unfair to your car because it might be a SUV, but it’s also like fifteen years _older than you_. My mom thinks you’re flighty and tightly wound, and my older sister thinks you’re adorable. Your taste in music is atrocious, but your movie collection is awesome. You read a lot, but not as much as me. You get decent grades but they’d be better if you followed a stricter regimen with your meds. You’d sleep better, too.  There’s yellow linoleum in your kitchen and a pair of women’s reading glasses that aren’t yours on the nightstand in your bedroom,” Derek continues, like he’s reading off a list entitled “General Collected Facts Regarding Stiles Stilinski.”

“I don’t... What? I mean... What does that mean, Derek? I’m...” Stiles is lost. Stiles is so, so lost. Derek rolls his eyes.

“What’s my favorite kind of popcorn?” he asks.

“Ugh, that disgusting kettle corn shit,” Stiles answers immediately, wrinkling his nose at the idea of it.

“Uh-huh. And what’s Scott’s favorite kind of popcorn?” Derek presses, and Stiles doesn’t have to think about that one either.

“Movie theatre butter,” he sighs out, going a little dreamy-eyed.

“Right, and you have both of those kinds of popcorn in your kitchen,” Derek informs him, like that clears everything up.

“So, you and Scott are... my best friends? The kind of best friends that don’t, uh, want to date me?” Stiles’ voice gets rough towards the end and he finds himself staring hard at his notebook but the lines start to waver so he squeezes his shut tight for a long moment, tries to focus on expanding his lungs.

“No, Stiles,” Derek’s voice is insistent, and his fingers are warm and careful on the inside of Stiles’ wrist, “Listen to me, okay? Scott and your dad are the most important people in your life. You keep movie theatre butter popcorn around for Scott and you only let your dad have the air-popped unsalted kind, which is a _crime_ , by the way. And you keep the kettle corn kind around for me even though you _hate it_. You and Scott have a lot of similar tastes, which is one of the many reasons your such good friends. You do your best by your dad because he’s your _dad_. You keep kettle corn in your kitchen because you indulge me, and you want me to stick around. Stiles, I’m not _going anywhere_ , and it’s not because of the stupid popcorn, okay?”

“Are you trying to tell me that we’ve _been_ dating, just without any of the good stuff?” Stiles asks when his heart stops trying to throb out of his chest as he laces his fingers with Derek’s across the table. 

“Well you don’t have panic attacks when you’re sitting next to Scott because you can’t stop thinking about how much you want to kiss him,” Derek points out, and Stiles thunks his head against the wood with a drawn out groan. Derek grins at him, and the librarian chuckles behind her hand.

**Author's Note:**

> I am tumblr user [DeliberateMisspelling](http://www.deliberatemisspelling.tumblr.com)


End file.
